


Blood on the Dance Floor

by Subtleillusionist201



Category: Angel: the Series, Devil May Cry
Genre: Gen, Half-Demon, Misunderstandings, Predator/Prey, Prophetic Visions, Vampires, night club
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 09:14:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8439952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Subtleillusionist201/pseuds/Subtleillusionist201
Summary: Cordelia has a vision that leads the gang to an unexpected ally. Happy Halloween!





	

**Author's Note:**

> It's been quite some time since I've seen or read (comic or fics) either Buffy or Angel and my first time writing for either fandom. I hope I'm doing them justice.

Blood on the Dance Floor

Halloween: a day usually reserved for children to trespass on their neighbors’ properties and demand candy. Sometimes it is one of the few days where wiccans and mediums have a stronger connection to the dead and other spirits. It’s also sort of a day of rest for most supernatural creatures, like an unspoken ceasefire or armistice between good and evil.

Today was no different. Angel and his human cohorts lounged about Hyperion Hotel, bored out of their minds. No action at all. Cordelia didn’t seem to mind it one way or another, as long as she got paid in the end. She busied herself with a quiz from a Cosmo magazine. Lorne was content somewhere, helping himself to a Seabreeze or three. Gunn and Wesley seemed especially grateful for the lull in activity, which in the preceding weeks had been non-stop demon slaying. However, there was nothing, not one peep this past week. They could at least rest their aching bodies. Wesley buried his nose in a book, brushing up on obscure demon lore and demonic hierarchy systems. Gunn made a game of tossing a tennis ball to a wall, allowing it to bounce once on the floor before catching it in the opposite hand.

The only sounds heard were of pages fluttering as they turned, ice clinking against glass, Cordy’s quiet gasps as she glimpsed a juicy gossip article about celebrities, and Gunn’s tennis ball. Do. Dunk. Catch. Do. Dunk. Catch.

Angel remained antsy, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It was exhausting to stay on his toes as long as he had then faced with an unsettling calm. The Powers That Be were funny like that. Either he was going to die (again) of boredom or he was going to snap. His brooding brows seethed with the need to hit something. He had to get away.

Angel took the opportunity to work out in his basement training room. He eyed the Chinese wooden dummy anchored to the wall.

“I could work on my stances,” he thought aloud. “Or swords.”

Angel looked to his collection mounted onto another wall. He quickly weighed the options and decided that both would take some too much time to get into a proper rhythm to practice. He just wanted a quick workout to let go of some pent up aggression.

He settled on the heavy boxing bag dangling in the center of the room.

He deemed it unnecessary to tape his hands or wrists and began with the heavy bag. His vampiric powers would take care of any injuries he would have suffered. Each strike made a satisfying Pow when he made contact. Jab. Jab. Two piece combo. Switch. Repeat. He even added some hooks and kicks for some variation, and then sped with each new rotation. He let out quick bursts of air with each hit. Yet another unnecessary human reflex he hadn’t been able to shake.

He hadn’t gotten part way through the exercise when he heard something fall and then yelling. Angel promptly pivoted and ran up the steps, taking them two and three at a time.

Did Lorne’s Sanctuary Spell fail? Are we under attack? He wondered.

He hoped that it was only Gunn’s ball; that it went off course and knocked over a lamp or something.

He was relieved to see that the only demon in the room was Lorne. He quickly became uneasy when he saw his team huddled around Cordelia who was lying on the couch, clutching her head and groaning in sheer agony. A vision, one of the many tortuous jokes courtesy of The Powers That Be.

When the fit subsided, Gunn helped her to sit up, while Wesley offered some aspirin and glass of water.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

When she appeared a little less dazed, Angel spoke.

“What did you see?” His voice struggled to find a balance between concerned compassion and business-like urgency.

Cordelia took another sip and passed the glass to Lorne. She began massaging her temples.

“It doesn’t make a lot of sense.” She took a moment to piece together the jumbled flashes she received. “A club. Dark, crowded. Weird music. A man wearing red. White hair. Cute smile. Blue eyes. No, wait… Red eyes. Blonde woman in a blue dress. Lots of blood. Big pile of dust in an alley.”

“Sounds like a vampire,” Lorne spoke up, “Who was it? The woman or the man?

“I don’t know,” Cordelia said.

“How much do you want to bet that the vamp hit on the Slayer in the club and she dusted him? Seems like the vision solved itself.”

“That’s why it’s so confusing. Why would I get a vision where the threat’s been taken care of?” Cordeila asked.

“Do you think the woman is a Slayer? Do you think she’s Buffy?” Wesley asked.

Cordelia shrugged in response.

“You mentioned blood,” Lorne said, “Maybe she’s hurt.”

Angel schooled his face into a neutral brooding expression, trying not to light up at the mention of Buffy’s name or react at the thought of her being hurt.

  
“Whatever’s going on, we need to check it out,” Angel said, “Did you get an address?”

“Way ahead of you,” Cordelia smiled. She pulled a waiting notepad and pen into her lap and began writing.


End file.
